Aird Laimisiadair

I just saw the Call the Midwife episode that was filmed on Lewis.  The scenes filmed at the Gearranan blackhouse village reminded me of one of the best short walk on Lewis, one that most tourists never make: the clifftop walk around the Aird Laimishader headland. 

I described the one-way hike to Laimishader from Gearrannan in the June 26, 2015 post, which you can read here. That is the best way to see the area, but it does involve a two-mile road walk back to Gearrannan. The easiest way to see it is the out-and-back hike from Borghaston; a beautiful three-mile hike to the headland and back described in Chapter 18 of Book 2.

What follows are photos taken during several visits to Laimishader, and from a sail past it; photos that span a period of 22 years, from 1997 to 2019.

Route of the walk from Gearrannan

Route of walk from Borghaston described in Book 2, Chapter 18

The original headland beacon at Aird Laimishader in 1997

The headland beacon in 2015 (now an IKEA tower)

Inland from the headland is Loch na- h-Airde. Anyone familiar with the prologue of Alasdair Alpin MacGregor's The Haunted Isles knows of the stepping stones that cross the stream here.

Loch na h-Airde - stepping stones at lower right

Stepping Stones - 1997

Looking out to the isles of Loch Rog

Old settlement site at Laimisiadar

Laimisiadar - once a monastery

St Ciaran's Well at Laimisiadar

A last look back at the headland

The Scarp Hostel

One of my favourite Hebridean islands is Scarp. I well remember several visits to Harris in the 1990s, standing at the slipway at Hushinish looking over to Scarp. I had no idea then how to get there, and neither did anyone I asked. Over a decade later, in the spring of 2004, I finally set foot on the island during a cruise on Hjalmar Bjorge. Since then I have been fortunate to have visited Scarp a half dozen times. To date I've not had the chance to spend a night on the island, something I'd dearly like to do. 

But between 1965 and 1971 several hundred travellers managed to do just that. During those six years there was a Gatliff Trust hostel on Scarp, truly the most remote hostel in Britain, even more remote (in terms of accessibility) than the Trust's hostel at Renigidale. To date I have not been able to identify where the Scarp hostel was. I am guessing in the village near the shop and phone box, but that is pure speculation. Brian Harper, a spring/summer resident of Scarp for many years, has no idea where it was. And neither does John Humphries, who has been involved in the Gatliff Trust for a long time.

The only information I can find on the Scarp hostel are the reports on its status published in the Gatliff Trust's yearly reports (which you can find here.) Put together, these reports provide a bare-bones sketch of the hostel's six-year life. What follows are excerpts from those reports relating to Scarp between the years 1965 and 1972. Placed between each year's report are photos from a cross-island walk made over the top of Scarp in 2013: sights those visitors to the hostel would have seen, and remembered.

The 1965 Gatliffe Trust yearly report has this first mention of Scarp: There is good prospect of our having next summer the use of old thatched houses in the islands of Scarp and Berneray.

The 1966 report states: The Scarp hostel opens. 75 bednights recorded. Scarp is harder to get to than Renigidale as the mailboat only makes the crossing every other day, and the twice-weekly bus to Husinish does not run on those days. Those who went found it very well worthwhile; for Scarp is not only beautiful in a rugged way but probably the most 'apart' of all islands still inhabited in the Hebrides and gives a very special welcome to visitors.

The 1967 report states: 95 bednights recorded. Scarp is more difficult to reach, because the bus service is scanty, hitching not to be relied on and the sea crossing infrequent and sometimes difficult. But those who are prepared to sleep out for a night on the way, or in sufficient numbers to meet the expense of special transport or a boat, and have several days to spare, can find it an even more rewarding adventure. A boy of 17 wrote "No one is likely to forget the strange feeling of having suddenly been washed up on the shores of a Tristan da Cunha."  The hostel had last summer rather more use than we had ventured to hope. An American hosteller commented: "Most enjoyable stay anywhere made more so by the hospitality of the MacLennans and the people of Scarp."

The last entry in the 'house book' for 1976 is a suggestion to advertise the Scarp hostel more widely, and include it in the S.Y.R.A. handbook. Just following this comment, but in different handwriting, is: "No please don't. Let it be the wonderful surprise to others as it was to us."

The 1968 report states: 107 bednights recorded. The Maclennans have left Scarp and live at West Tarbert, but Norman Macinnes has taken charge of the hostel. He and others however are probably leaving before long, and it may be that the island must become a sheiling lived in only during the summer. 

The 1968 report states: 60 bednights recorded. Angus and Joan MacLennan have retired to the mainland, and, sad as it is to see old people leave their island homes, no doubt it's best they should go where life is easier. Norman McInnes, who took over, is still there and we are glad to hear he'll be for another summer at least. Fewer hostellers reach Scarp than Howmore or Rhenigidale, but those that do find it very rewarding. A visitor wrote "To stay in Scarp hostel is a great privilege; the house is a living page from the folk history of Scotland." It's strangely moving to find this written of the most primitive hostel in Britain. 

Scarp from all we hear will be lived-all-the-year-round-in for a little while yet, but as those who live there get older it may not be possible or indeed right that they should remain much longer. If not it may still be possible for some of them, and some of you who love the island, and such bodies as the Schools Hebridean Society to keep it lived in in summer, a live sheiling, including the hostel.

The 1970 report states: 146 bednights recorded. The news from Scarp was not so good. We heard in October that part of the roof had fallen in, and the house was no longer habitable. We were not clear which part, or whether it was due to Act of God (wind) or act of cow (grazing) - the hostel is believed to be the only inhabited house in Britain (except perhaps flats in the Barbican in the City of London) that has grazing grass on the roof. 

At Easter however Michael Gerrish and two friends went over with a lot of polythene, found it was only the barn end that had fallen in, probably by act of sheep, not cow, and made the hostel part weatherproof for at any rate another summer, though perhaps after that the walls will fall in or out. Whilst more people are leaving the island, one or two are likely to remain all the year round, at any rate for some years. We are considering whether we should try to get the use of some other building.

The 1971 report states: 139 bednights recorded. In the Autumn of 1969 we heard that one end of the building had fallen in and was really no longer suitable for use. However, Myke Gerrish and friends going over in the Spring found it was the byre end, and did considerable first-aid. This survived for a while and the hostel was just usable. But the wind damaged the first-aid and, more important, the roof over the other end, the dormitory, began to collapse. We reluctantly had to recognize that the building could not be kept habitable and must be abandoned. However for 6 years it had provided something unique in Britain.

The 1972 report states: Scarp, as we said in our last letter, had to be abandoned, and we were unable to find any replacement there; indeed, the island is no longer inhabited all the year round. 

* * *

The last year-round residents of Scarp left in 1971. Today it is only occupied for several months in the spring and summer. If you ever get a chance to visit Scarp, do it. It is a large island with some challenging terrain; an island that takes several visits to completely see, and those are the best kind.

Merry Christmas

Every winter I think back on an extraordinary day in 1998 when I climbed the snowy slopes of Heaval on the island of Barra. At an elevation of 900 feet, 350 feet below the summit, I came to the statue of Our Lady Star of the Sea.

The name Star of the Sea comes from this prayer attributed to St Bernard: If the winds of temptation arise, look to the star. If you are tossed upon the waves, look to the star; call on Mary. Intercession for help while being tossed upon the waves was very important for island communities, whose livelihood depended on the sea, and where drowning deaths were common. The statue, carved by Hew Lorimer, depicts the child Jesus sitting on Mary’s shoulder, his left hand holding aloft the Star of the Sea. This will be the 65th Christmas the two of them have held a beacon of hope over the Barra Isles.

Merry Christmas!

2020 Guided Cruise - Last Call

There is only one spot remaining on my 2020 cruise on Hjalmar Bjorge (for a female sharing a cabin). We plan to make a loop around the Western Isles, departing Oban April 25, returning May 4. Details can be found on the above 2020 Guided Cruise tab, and this Northern Lights page.

Note: The voyage around Ireland in September reminded of how much I love to explore on my own when going ashore, something I'm unable to do when guiding. As much as I've enjoyed leading walks on some of my favourite Hebridean islands over the past five years, the April 2020 cruise will be my last trip as a guide - for a while, anyway.

Islay to Cork - Days 19 and 20 - An Island to End

The Loganair flight out of Cork was late getting to Glasgow on September 24. So it was nearly 5pm by the time I drove out of the airport, crossed the Erskine Bridge, and then followed the A82 to Loch Lomond. Twenty minutes later I left the highway to take the Luss Bypass - a narrow stretch of the old highway that runs up the shoreline of the loch. A minute later I parked at Bandry, a small cluster of houses that overlook my favourite island. The name 'Bandry' comes from the Gaelic Ban-Traigh, the white (or holy) beach. In times past, when the water level of the loch was lower, you could walk from Bandry to the island via a causeway. The island is Inchtavanaich, Innis Taigh a' Mhanaich, the island of the monastery. 

I made a phone call to say I'd arrived, and ten minutes later the sound of an outboard motor announced that a boat, piloted by a dear friend, was departing the island.

At the helm was Roy Rogers, who has lived on the island for decades. I made Roy, the island, and the horses he keeps there the subject of an article in the Scots Magazine in 2008 (which is included in chapter 19 of Book 1). A few minutes later I was walking up to Inchtavannach House, which dates to the 17th century, and incorporates some of the stones from St Kessog's 5th century monastery.

Roy, his partner Susan, and his son Nicol live here. I first met them nearly 20 years ago, when I was looking for ways to get to the islands of Loch Lomond. Since then I've visited Inchtavannach over a dozen times, including two occasions when I camped on the island. It had been four years since my last visit, so it was good to see them, and the horses, again. One of the horses, Kess, had been born when I last visited, so it was good to see him nearly fully grown. Kess was named in honor of St Kessog, who established the monastery here some 1600 years ago.

Kess as a foal

Kess in 2019

Another horse I was glad to see was Rosa. In the book I used the following photo of her swimming to the island in 2008. Rosa, now retired, was the primary horse they used to pull the carriage when Roy and Susan were working weddings.

After dinner and drinks, and catching up with the island news, I slept like a log. Early the next morning I set out to walk the length of the island, my final destination Tom nan Clag, the hill of the bell. The horses followed me until I left the grassy meadow near the house to head into the forest.

Just at the edge of the meadow is an outcropping of stone. It was once much bigger, and contained St Kessog's Cave. In the 19th century the cave was blasted apart for building material.

Site of St Kessog's Cave

A big change since my last visit has been the introduction of Highland cattle. With their long, sharp horns, they can be a little intimidating when you come across them on a hike. But if there are no calves around they are as gentle as can be.

From the meadow, I followed a path that winds its way north through a forest of beech and oak. There was a bit of controversy recently when SNH poisoned many of the island's beech trees (they were deemed non-native).

The path left the woodlands at a lochside meadow that lies at the base of the Hill of the Bell. From there it was time to climb the hill via what is sometimes called 'The Monk's Road'. The stone-lined path has mostly crumbled away, but here and there remnants of it survive. The monks most certainly climbed the hill via a path, but the stonework was probably put in place by quarry workers. Up until the 1950s the mainland opposite the island was a large slate quarry.

The 'road' ends at the top of the Hill of the Bell, 300 feet above the loch. There are two possible reasons for the hill's name. One is that the shape of the hill resembles a bell, and it certainly does. The other possibility is the tradition that St Kessog rang his bell here on special occasions. The bell is said to have survived for 1500 years; eventually hanging from a post in the loch, from where it went missing in the 19th century. 

Inchtavannach, and especially its Hill of the Bell, are an oasis of peace in the busy terrain surrounding Loch Lomond. I fondly remember camping atop the hill ten years ago; watching the stars gradually appear until it got too cold to stay out, and then slipping into the warm sleeping bag. 

Unfortunately I had a plane to catch, so after spending a half hour atop the hill I started back. I said goodbye to Roy and Susan, and then Roy ferried my back to the mainland. My stay on Inchtavannach capped an amazing three-week adventure. I'd made a loop of 1,000 miles from Glasgow, to Islay, to Oban, to Tory, to Dingle, to Cork, and then Inchtavannach.  It was time to go home